


good omens (dear future husband)

by hamlet1971



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Magical Realism, Pining, remember that myth about the prophet who no one ever believes, that but like. hermann
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 03:58:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17859857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamlet1971/pseuds/hamlet1971
Summary: Here are the ways in which Hermann Gottlieb would describe his affliction: an itch, a scratch, a deep-set intuition- a blink, an ache, the arc of a bell curve. The second before cause turns effect, the breath before the pendulum swings the other way. An awareness, or more accurately, a premonition.Nothing superstitious about it.———(Or: The one where Hermann can tell the future down to the decimal point, the world has trouble believing him, and how he could never have predicted Newt Geiszler.)





	good omens (dear future husband)

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little batshit

 

Hermann was roughly thirteen years old when he first became aware that the world was, for better or worse, ending.

 

“I am telling you,” he said to his father, tilting his chin up; he had waited, strategically, to corner the man in his office, just where he would be too preoccupied with his work to berate him before turning him out, “though sea monsters may sound ridiculous, yes, the very fate of the world hinges on your willingness to believe me.”

 

This would not be the first or last time the world would have trouble believing him on word alone.

 

This would not be the first or last time Lars Gottlieb would laugh in his face.

 

———

 

Here are the ways in which Hermann Gottlieb would describe his affliction: an itch, a scratch, a deep-set intuition- a blink, an ache, the arc of a bell curve. The second before cause turns effect, the breath before the pendulum swings the other way. An awareness, or more accurately, a premonition.

 

Nothing superstitious about it.

 

Growing up in southeast Germany, he could remember the telltale tugging down in his gut and the tingles in his forearms long before anything else- even as a child, he complained of mystery symptoms no family doctor could diagnose beyond _stress,_ or simply _neuroses._ He didn’t fault them anything, surely there was no cure to his condition when it was as second nature as breathing, as instinctual as the pumping of blood through his veins. Still, though there was little practical use for his ability in the idyllic farmland of Bavaria, he spent his childhood dodging disaster and rattling off predictions like clockwork.

 

The problems only really set in alongside the realization that he was never to be believed on his own, or at least without a wealth of evidence to back himself up. The near-constant frustration would have left him jaded, if there was not that special something within him always telling him that, eventually, no matter the odds, he would land on his feet.

 

Odds fascinated him. The math, of course, came naturally- it became increasingly harder to be denied when he had numbers behind him.

 

There was a particular beauty in math he seldom found in anything else. Even during the most turbulent times of his life, he could turn to the never-changing, oft-underappreciated, silent strength found in numbers. Nothing could calm his nerves quite like probability & statistics, he enjoyed it regardless of his natural talents; it was easy finding fractions and percentages when he’d been doing it instinctually his whole life.

 

He would never forget the relief he felt when he first realized he could translate his predictions and measure them into writing.

 

———

 

Despite his desperation, Hermann could almost see why his doom-saying never caught on. The visions, the certainty, they haunted him- just as well as he knew that monsters the size of buildings would one day emerge from a sleeping ocean, he knew that of all the things to believe, this would be the hardest to prove. Ironic, then, that it would be the most important.

 

On August 10th, 2013, when the world’s first kaiju laid waste to San Francisco- in a way, it almost came as a relief. Almost.

 

Amid the subsequent scrambling, Hermann found himself at the epicenter of the storm overtaking the academic community. For good reason- nobody else had the foresight to learn about drift mechanics or look into the technology required to build war machines standing 300 feet tall, nobody else had any reason to. He had an intellectual monopoly before his field even existed.  

 

He did what he had to. Hermann rolled up his sleeves and put to work the designs he’d been perfecting since he was a teenager. The catharsis, it was almost worth it all- the paranoia, the frustration, the inescapable guilt.

 

Well- Almost.

 

———

 

There is no tingle when he first sees Newton Geiszler.

 

Or-

 

Correction: There is a different kind of tingle when he first sees Newton Geiszler.

 

He’s certain that it’s still indicative of something bad to come.

 

———

 

On the day he meets Newton, Hermann is carefully cataloging his belongings as he unpacks into the Shatterdome, from his imported coffee grinder to each and every one of his meticulously creased slacks.

 

Another addendum: Hermann had some foresight when it came to Geiszler. He first encountered his work startlingly early in his career, it was impossible not to. The man was brilliant at first glance- professor in his early twenties, owner of a truly unnecessary amount of doctorates, and right at the frontlines of the research when the attacks started. Yet, when it had come to that first year, something held Hermann back.

 

He almost drafted an email. Usually, before decisions like that, there was a sense of where the correspondence would go, what it would lead to. It was the total lack of instinct that would persuade him not to send his letter; never before had he encountered someone with no idea where they would go or what they would do. When Hermann peered into his potential future with Newt Geiszler, he came up empty- The man was unpredictable in quite the literal sense.

 

He’s wiggling sticks of chalk out of the near-impossible to open plastic packaging it arrived in to be placed delicately on the tray of the floor-to-ceiling chalkboards, when the grinding of gears and the distinct squeak of rubber on metal paneling marks the arrival of his coworker.

 

Dr. Newton Geiszler is short. He’s scruffy, windswept, dressed up in a Back To The Future t-shirt that looks to be at least a decade old and a gigantic corduroy jacket with pins bearing slogans such as ‘ _BASH THE FASH’,_ and ‘ _Boston Hardcore Fest 2010_ ’, or ‘ _Get with me: You’ll be_ _(Mg, Fe²⁺)₂(Mg, Fe²⁺)₅Si₈O₂₂(OH)₂’_. He’s rubbing at the back of his neck and blinking across the room at Hermann with these big, green eyes- he’s wrinkling his nose as he scans the lab and the way Hermann has neatly divided it in two.

 

Hermann has never seen someone so messy. It’s no wonder he couldn’t get a read on him- from what he can see, it looks like Newt has no idea what he’s doing either. The smile Newt gives him is decidedly forced, too big for his face, and Hermann can’t be bothered to knock the shock off his own. Not when his supposed partner is shifting back and forth in his (notably unlaced) Chuck Taylor’s, covered in sharpie scribbles that could very well be field notes. The Jansport slung over his shoulder is unzipped and with a little toy Millenium Falcon dangling from it.

 

 _He’s twelve years old_ , Hermann thinks helplessly.

 

“Wh- Ah.” Hermann says, pausing to clear his throat, praying to god that he does not go red. Newt doesn’t seem to notice or care about the hitch in his voice. He promptly plops his backpack down with little regard for its contents, himself in a rolling chair right next to it. He still hasn’t said a word, which seems uncharacteristic of the loud-mouth he had seen in the grainy youtube footage taken of Newt starting debates at scientific conventions, college lecture halls, or basically anywhere else he could.

 

Hermann continues undaunted by the quizzical expression Newt is giving him, “Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Geiszler.”

 

Newt nods, still looking around a little absent-mindedly as if he’s searching for the answers to how they will ever make this work in the fluorescent lighting decorating the ceiling. _Immature, as well as a bad listener,_ Hermann notes. He scrambles for further conversation, pointing at a pin that had previously caught his attention. “ I- What does that say?”

 

Newt blinks, and follows Hermann’s finger to the _(Mg, Fe²⁺)₂(Mg, Fe²⁺)₅Si₈O₂₂(OH)₂_ pin under scrutiny. He cringes, then gives a sheepish grin that sparks something unfamiliar in Hermann’s stomach.

 

“Oh, fuck, that one-” Newt slings an arm over the back of his chair, already rocking himself back and forth with his foot. His words come out breathy, half-laugh, at a fast clip that suggests he won’t slow down and Hermann might want to start keeping up. “It’s- jesus, man, sorry, ha, it’s- So, there’s this one mineral. Magnesium iron silicate hydroxide. And-”

 

Hermann nods for him to continue. Newt gives a nervous bark of a laugh.

 

This time Newt clears his throat. “It’s called, uh- Cummingtonite. That’s the joke. Get with me: you’ll be...” He trails off. The smile doesn’t leave his face.

 

Hermann narrows his eyes.

 

Newt nods. “That’s about the reaction I was expecting, yeah. Wait- dude, who put a _chalkboard_ in here?”

 

———

 

On the subject of Hermann’s romantic history: practically nonexistent.

 

Even when pressed, especially when pressed, that’s all he’s willing to divulge. It’s one long, sad story, pockmarked with extended periods of loneliness and the strict prioritization of his career dooming his relationships. He’s resigned himself to being forever single, regardless of his time spent entertaining the occasional fantasy of white knights slash theoretical mathematicians with impressive shoulder-to-hip ratios, late at night. It’s not something he finds incredible necessary, let alone relevant- what with the literal end of the world right around the corner. He can leave flirtation until after humanity has finished fighting for its life.  

 

He’s had his flings and blind dates and time in the limelight, plus a handful of serious relationships with a handful of serious men, but as for _Newton-_

 

If Google is anything to be trusted, Newt has been getting around. Single at the moment, not that it concerns Hermann in the slightest.

 

He tugs his comforter further around himself, pauses to wipe his reading glasses against his flannel pajama bottoms, and continues scrolling down Newt’s wikipedia page. After moving into his dormitory, admittedly cramped, as well as painfully reminiscent of his school days, it would only make sense to do some further investigation into who exactly he was expected to work most closely with. There were other scientists, of course, but Newt and Hermann got the _lab,_ for reasons he already knows the answers to- surrounded by the best of the best, he and Newt are still the most grossly overqualified for their positions.

 

Newt Geiszler went through relationships with something that could only be described as _ferocity_ in his twenties, though nothing stuck. Plus, he’s been quietly alone these past years. His dating history turbulent as well as colorful, the man explored a handful of hockey players, musicians, slam poets, physicists, and, most notably as well as most recently- an appallingly famous runway model named Vanessa, who appeared to be mostly made of expensive, gold-flaked Belgian moisturizer, Dom Perignon, and pure gumption.

 

He squints at the picture on his screen- a Hollywood Reporter article featuring a Paparazzi creepshot of Newt laughing, shirtless, sharing a plate of sushi with a bikini-clad Vanessa, looking entirely out of place and a tad uncomfortable on a beach surrounded by tanned, meticulously groomed fashion industry staples and pseudo-celebrities- in a pair of ill-fitting swim trunks, glasses askew, unshaved.

 

Hermann didn’t know Newt’s tattoos extended to his chest.

 

Hermann’s mouth is uncharacteristically dry. He closes the tab, and decides that he’s learned all he needs to know.

———

 

“The next kaiju will be attacking Manila,” Hermann sighs, setting his mug down onto the folded newspaper left on the nearest table. “One of the biggest yet.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Pentecost says, and Hermann nods, absentmindedly tracing the rim of his drink with one finger, not knowing what exactly he expected. He hears Newt snort from behind him, and for whatever reason it stings significantly more than it reasonably should.

 

(Though, the next week when the kaiju makes land where he said it would, he swears he catches Newt giving him a sidelong glance).

 

———

 

Whatever he has with Newton mostly manifests itself in the near-tangible tension in the air that appears whenever they exchange more than three words, pulled tight like a rubber band stretched to its limit. He calls it irritation and is positive that Newt agrees. When eventually questioned by one of the other science officers, Newt had slung one leather-clad around Hermann’s shoulders and called them _best fucking friends slash devoted lovers_ in a tone dripping with so much cynicism that it even threw Hermann for a loop.

 

It’s a rough first three years, that is more bickering and thinly veiled barbs than it is any actual progress. They’re anything but friends- Hermann grows close with other members of the PPDC, as he’s sure Newt does as well- but still the chasm between the two of them persists, unbridgeable. Neither makes any effort to cross it, even despite how painfully aware Hermann is of the difficulties their petty feud cause the rest of their coworkers who are forced to deal with them. There’s no real end in sight.

 

Once, Tendo called them co-dependent when he was stopping by, and Hermann thinks their mutual outrage was one of the first things the two of them had agreed on in days.

 

But he can’t deny that they’ve developed a definitive rhythm over the years, like it or not. When he’s not avoiding Newton like the plague, or sticking his nose up at him, their academic collaboration quickly becomes more of a dance than any dialogue- the results are, without fail, staggering. He doesn’t know whether to be infuriated or delighted that he and Geiszler can work together and leave with findings of the magnitude that they normally do. In fact, the absence of the expectations and safety nets that working with Newt guaranteed was more refreshing than anything else, Hermann would go as far as to say that maybe he worked better when he didn’t know where he’d end up.

 

The competition was healthy. Invigorating. Newt Geiszler wasn’t all bad, either- if he stayed late with an extra coffee for Hermann, it was an excuse to get the last word in and nothing more. Hermann had had worse lab-mates for sure- and no shortage of less talented ones. Hermann Gottlieb was not used to being matched on the intellectual playing field.

 

He could put up with stray Queen CD’s and manic air-guitar for a few more years if it meant the world was a safer place because of it.

 

———

 

The problem he never anticipated: keeping Newt out of harm’s way was an apocalypse in it’s own right.

 

Newt Geiszler, he tells himself, is an gifted, capable, self-regulating, fully functional adult with a Macarthur Grant and tenure. Hate to admit or not, he is a professional, aware of both his own ability and his cleverness.

 

Newt Geiszler, he thinks to himself, spits in the face of logic and reason by continuing to remain alive,  taking into account his current level of disregard for lab safety and for any and all instincts of self preservation.

 

Hermann tries not to interfere in any major way, and yet it comes down to life-and-death frighteningly often- it’s all he can do to push Newt out of the way before a pulsating kaiju spleen implodes into a shower of toxic goo that misses him just barely, to bump his elbow while passing so his scalpel doesn’t hit the gland on a fresh larynx that will release a cloud of corrosive gas.

 

The more time he spends sharing a room with him, the more he finds himself caught in awe- Newt Geiszler flirts with death nearly every second of his life, and dodges in the nick of time all on his own. It’s bold. It’s brazen. It’s a dangerous, irresponsible, thrilling way to live- the constant adrenaline rush born of new specimens and latex gloves, guitar solos and fresh tattoos- Hermann can almost understand why Newt is so excitable.

 

———

 

It’s a Sunday mid-noon, but there are no days off when you’re part of humanity’s last line of defense.

 

Clearly, someone in his lab didn’t get the memo. The most recent problem to strike was thankfully not kaiu-related, but simply that A/C broke Shatterdome-wide, or at least in the lower quadrants. It left everywhere from the cafeteria to the lab victim to the full heat of the Hong Kong summer- amplified by the insulation afforded by the metal dome.

 

Hermann sniffed, rolled up his sleeves, and ignored the sweat steadily beading on his forehead in favor of continuing to pen down lines upon lines of calculations. If he didn’t let years upon years of ridicule and opposition stop him, then surely something as trivial as weather couldn’t.

 

Newt, on the other hand, loudly bemoaned that he had to lock up all his active specimens in the freezers for fear of heat damage, and took to wheeling around the lab on a spinning chair with his tie undone, fiddling with a rubix cube, and pouting. This was a problem that amounted to a few extra eyerolls directed at Newt than he normally doled out being required, but nothing of major importance.

 

Then, suddenly, like an unwelcome guest, that tugging- right in the pit of his stomach. Like butterflies, with a more sinister agenda. Hermann feels the goosebumps begin to dot his bare forearms and thinks _here we go again._ He turns around, and takes a quick scan of the room, dropping his chalk on the ground in his urgency. Newt is biting on the tip of his pen, scribbling on something on the side of the fridge, dancing absentmindedly to the music playing faintly on the radio with just his hips. His focus lands on one of the stray buckets of kaiju blue Newt had neglected to put away- left under a lamp.

 

“Newton,” Hermann says, distress coloring his voice, “Stop- Get on my side of the lab.”

 

Newt sniffs, “Yeah, one second, I’m like- totally destroying the crossword you taped to fridge. It’s speaking to me.”

 

“ _Newton,_ ” Hermann hisses- he cannot for the life of him tell if Newt isn’t listening to him because he’s simply being Newt, or if it’s another way he won’t be believed. He can feel the panic start to rise- He doesn’t know when he started to care about Newt’s safety more than that of any other person’s, but now he’s feeling the full force of that concern. “This is serious. I’m being serious.”

 

Newt snorts, without looking up, “Dude. I know, I’m coming.”

 

A wet sound from the kaiju blue- like a thick bubble popping.

 

Newt looks over with mild interest, just as Hermann throws his cane with as much strength as he can muster. It slams against the wall with an impressively loud sound- Newt jumps back from the impact with surprisingly quick reaction time.

 

“ _What,”_ Newt says, flat, “the-”

 

The bucket sprays kaiju blood like a deadly version of diet coke and mentos.

 

Newt blinks at the spot where he previously was, then down at himself- left unscathed, just barely, then at the handle of Hermann’s cane left in the process of melting, then back at Hermann. Who lets out the breath he didn’t know he had been holding.

 

“Oka- _a-_ ay,” Newt says, “I didn’t know it would do that.”

 

———

 

This time it’s a Tuesday- Hermann is mixing two packets of sugar into his depressing styrofoam cup of ‘dome coffee with the wooden mixer, watching the crystals disappear. There are no attacks coming for a while, of that he’s sure, and yet there’s an unshakeable feeling of unease that’s been following him all morning. It led to some mixups- he wore mismatching socks for one, argyle on one foot and stripes on the other. Tendo and Newt had found that wildly entertaining, a lot more than they should have. It wouldn’t have been such a big deal if the hems of Hermann’s pants didn’t always manage to stop right above the ankle.

 

“Look at this wonderful new ladder I’ve just purchased for your chalkboard,” Newt says, gesturing to a sturdy-looking, newly-painted, all-around well-crafted addition Hermann would love to use to replace his old one- which was already veritably falling apart after only a few years of use.

 

He’s about to say his thanks when the feeling hits. _Loose screws._ Is ladder simply a rash, poorly guided purchase: Or is Newt trying to _kill_ him, now? He’s leaning toward the former. He’s sure that even with their petty rivalry and all, Newt would never wish any physical harm upon him, though there’s something telling him that Newt loosened the screws himself.  It’s unsettling.

 

Hermann’s face falls, “I- You can keep it. Unsafe.”

 

Newt narrows his eyes in a very Hermann-typical way.

 

“Sure thing, man,” he says.

 

———

 

Sitting cross-legged in the center of his bed, Hermann swears he hears a knock.

 

It’s unfortunately late at night to be up like this, punching numbers into Desmos, and he’s near certain that he’s one of the only people awake at this point. What with the new training regimen rolled out in response to the bigger and badder kaiju, as soon as the professional day is done, the Shatterdome population tends to pass out as soon as they physically can.

 

But- of course- Newt surprises him again.

 

Dr. Geiszler, upon having his knock ignored, elects to barge directly into Hermann’s room with little regard for his privacy or typical societal niceties.Hermann sputters for a brief second, outraged- and then he remembers his too-big pajama bottoms, striped socks, mussed hair, fucking _David Bowie t-shirt_ \- and embarrassment settles in for the long run. 

 

“What,” He snaps, flat enough that the word ceases to be a question.

 

Newt is still clutching the doorframe with one hand, and something about his wide-eyed expression suggests that he didn’t think what he would do next after he kicked the door in. So, Newt gives a little lop-sided grin that’s a touch nervous, in a way that makes Hermann’s stomach flip. 

 

“I understand that you’re insufferable,” Newt says, plaintively, “And overrated, and that you just love sucking the fun out of my life, like the middle school hall monitor of your nightmares grew up into a leading mathematician-“

 

“Is this going anywhere?”

 

Newt crosses his arms and shifts so he’s leaning on the wall with his shoulder. Something unplaceable in Hermann’s chest hitches- his theory that Newt crawled out of bed every day before work with little preparation is confirmed. He looks just as disheveled as he would expect, Hermann’s pretty sure he’s even seen the sweatpants he’s wearing before. But, but, _but-_ he’s never seen him with his features that softened. With that expression.

 

Hermann is frozen in place. He snaps himself out of it, gestures for Newt to continue.

 

“But,” Newt says, pauses like what he’s doing is painful and must gather strength before speaking, “It’s- Thank you for Sunday. Was that-“

 

Hermann nods, cutting him off. “You’re welcome.”

 

He's certain that Newt is hiding something from him, from the quizzical, critical way he examines Hermann and everything about his surroundings. His eyes catch on the journal discretely labeled ' _predictions_ ' resting on his nightstand. 

 

Later, when Newt turns to leave after making small-talk with him about his fucking shirt, of all things, he halts like he has one last thing to say. Nothing ever comes of it. Newt turns back to look at Hermann, and the moment stretches out across Hermann's periphery, then Newt promptly makes his leave with no goodbye. The lamp-light glowing on the soft lines of Newton's jaw, the slope to his shoulders as he rests one hand in his pocket, the dark smudge against his cheek made by the fan of his lower lashes-

 

Oh. That's what was different. No glasses. 

 

———

 

That unease has not disappeared as the weeks have passed. There’s something going on behind his back, trivial, but something he can’t put his finger on exactly. It’s frustrating- puts a damper on his mood all day and leaves him marginally more crabby than he normally would be. It’s a Monday, Hermann spent it milling about LOCCENT and gathering what data he could scrounge from the code leftover from the most recent attack.

 

Newt’s been acting odd lately- that has something to do with it, more likely than not. Dropping small objects more, things Hermann can just barely catch before they shatter. Getting in more dangerous situations than normal.

 

“So, who do you think’s gonna win the Super Bowl this year?” Newt says, feet propped up on his desk. Today, he’s switched the ratty converse out for a pair of equally beaten up steel-toed boots, slowly flaking mud onto the carefully penned conclusions in his notebook. Hermann looks up from the intense session of Go Fish he and Newt had been embarking on, and finds himself a little shocked by the way Newt’s freckles stand out in direct lighting.

 

“What?” Hermann bleats.

 

“The Super Bowl,” Newt swivels his laptop around, gestures to the screen, snapping Hermann out of it- there are at least three football related tabs open, of varying levels of uninteresting.

 

Hermann snorts, he didn’t bother to care about sports back when the world was in a stable condition- he certainly doesn’t have the energy to now that it’s flatlining. “You should know well enough by now, Newton, that I have never been one for sports. I hardly took you for the type either.”

 

“Oh, duh.” Newt replies, without missing a beat, “I don’t give a shit about football, I’m just wondering who wins for reasons. Super legitimate reasons. You know.”

 

“I don’t.” Says Hermann, drily- but as much as he knows about Newt’s disdain for organized sports, he knows with confidence who is going to win. “The Patriots, I think. Lucky for you, then- you’re from Boston, correct?”

 

Newt lays down a card in lieu of responding to the question.

 

Later, Hermann will catch Newt hastily penning down his answer in one of the many notepads strewn about the lab.

 

———

 

Wednesday. Rainy, yet pleasant. If it weren’t for the influx of data on the locations of breaches in conjunction with other factors that MIT, Newton’s alma mater, had just released- he wouldn’t have minded going on a walk through Hong Kong, something he hadn’t done in too long. Not to mention- The Shatterdome finally got a shipment of blueberries in along with the supplies, which made his oatmeal significantly more enjoyable. It gave him something to look forward to for the next few upcoming mornings, besides his breakfast arguments with Dr. Geiszler. 

 

Speak of the devil. Hermann’s had an all-around enjoyable day, at least until Newt entered the picture.

 

Newt chucks an apple directly at Hermann’s head while he’s writing on the chalkboard.

 

Hermann subtly ducks out of the way before he even realizes he’s doing it, and Newt jumps up and out of his chair like he’s having a _Eureka_ moment.

 

“How the hell do you _do_ that, dude?” Newt says, rushing over as Hermann stops dead in his tracks, chalk dust drifting slowly to the floor next to the destroyed apple leaking juice onto the bottoms of his oxfords. “Your- your spider-sense thing. It’s fucking insane. Are you taking something? Are you-”

 

The ensuing look Hermann fixes him with then is chilly enough that it stops Newt dead in his tracks.

 

“I-” Hermann pinches the bridge of his nose. As soon as Newt threw that apple, the metaphorical, metaphysical itch he couldn’t quite scratch immediately disappeared. “Have you been experimenting on me, Geiszler?”

 

Newt pauses. His shoes squeak against the floor. His arms twitch like he’s unsure whether to shove his hands in his pocket or in his hair. “Listen,” he says, “Maybe? Like- like a _little._ And- totally justified, by the way, completely- you do know what you’re doing, right? Like, saving my life and shit? You’re aware that you-”

  
“I’m fully aware that I have been intervening, albeit in minor ways.” Hermann says, prim.

 

He had never prepared for a confrontation. He had never expected Newt to launch a full-scale investigation. It was moments like this that he cursed whatever higher power he could think of that he couldn’t for the life of him get a read on Newt Geiszler- look at the ripple effect it had on his life. Look at how the curious glint in those green eyes never fully went away.

 

Hermann tilts his chin up high, like he did as a child speaking to his father, arms crossed defensively across his button-up cardigan, waiting for Newt to say something- standing across from him left agog, doing almost the same thing.

 

“I-” Newt chokes on his own words. It’s a moment worth remembering- Newt left speechless. “Could you- I mean, would you explain yourself? Please? Come on, Herms, it’s pretty batshit. You have to agree on that, at least.”

 

Hermann sniffs, “It’s fairly batshit. Not a particularly shocking level of batshit. Not the degree of batshit that should warrant all this, but I digress. Yes, Newton, I have some ability to predict what may happen next in the future- but it’s not all that you make it out to be.”

 

The noise that Newt makes can most accurately be described as that of helium escaping a balloon.

 

———

 

The Shatterdome budget cuts are, in a word: brutal.

 

As for Hermann, when the other scientists pack their bags and it’s down to him and Newt, well- he resents the notion that he barely notices a difference.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> tuvstar.tumblr.com  
> thanks 4 reading lol! please comment or something
> 
> whoopsie i abandoned this to write something scarily similar


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